


Gone To Hell

by Allthegenericnamesweretaken (Dingsbums)



Series: Gravity Falls shorts [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Freeform, Gen, Non-canonical dialogue, Stanford Pines POV, Stanley Pines POV, The Pines brothers aren't okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:18:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7083025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dingsbums/pseuds/Allthegenericnamesweretaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things have turned for the worse for the Pines brothers, even upon separate walks of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone To Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind that this was written before we knew what the deal (heh) with Ford and Bill was, so their interaction was complete speculation.

The man strode further into the recess of his cabin, dust eddying in the dingy, crowded confines of his home. Experiments, wires and desks, tables, each supporting an endeavour of some kind darkened the corners and webs clotted the skirting boards. There was little time for cleaning; the signs lay clear in the lack of dust feathering certain objects or instruments, notes scattered and freshly-opened books scattered around the dust-cleared channel Bourne of hours of pacing, thinking.  
Stanford Pines was not well.  
His large, firm hands shook, his usually solid features gaunt and stained from lack of sleep. His lips were chapped and bled from worrying, and his clothing was moth bitten, the elbows filmed with grey.  
He descended into his lab, bloodshot eyes wide and haunted as he stared at the triangular machine through the traced observation glass, six fingers rapping furiously at the keyboard on each hand.  
It had been weeks - no, months, since Fiddleford had left. Had abandoned him, the project - the answers he'd so desperately craved, losing himself in the supposed horrors he had witnessed. Stanford chuckled dryly, his throat cracking. He knew they had come far too far for that - neither of them could escape the binds they'd gotten themselves wound into now.  
 **'Hey, Sixer, I like you. You're the real deal - you too, Banjo, wouldn't want to leave you out. Hey, I've been thinking; I know what you want. And I can give it to you! In return for a small... favour.' He paused, considering the pair. 'Or two.  
Either way! I can help you, Sixer - I'm practically omniscient. C'mon, whaddya say? I can help you big time, fellas - If you'd shake on it, that is...'**

 

The night air was cold and dank; rain seeped through his sweat-stained jacket, his broad shoulders protruding from the shelter of the payphone.  
"Hello, Stanford Pines?-"  
He slammed the phone back into its slot, his hand lingering for a moment. Why did he even pick up the damn phone in the first place?  
He didn't need his brother's help.   
He didn't need anybody.   
He climbed back into his car, falling back into the measly assortment of luxuries, consisting of a worn down duvet and pillow crammed into the confined crevice where the passenger seats should have been. It barely allowed for his shoulders to wedge themselves into place, let alone for him to get comfortable in his makeshift bed. The quilt stank of sweat and grease and his face was rough from nights of drink, gambling and little sleep. He ran a hand through his hair, rubbing his eyes with the other, before gazing back at the portrait of his brother and himself, young and bright-eyed, grasping crabs shoved to the camera's nearest focusing ability in their excitement.  
His eyes bore into the car ceiling, tracing the dents and impressions on the tin as the first patters of rain began to fall.  
 _I'm doing great._ He had planned to say, had the worst come to the worst and the recipient finally identified the mystery caller.  
He choked back a building thickness in his throat as he raised a worn palm to his eyes, elbow brushing countless failed attempts at folded, ripped or cigarette-charred scratch cards.  
 _And the best part is, I don't need anyone..._


End file.
